


Beautiful Flowers

by natcat5



Category: Axis Powers Hetalia
Genre: Historical AU, M/M, iggychu, opium war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-26
Updated: 2011-12-26
Packaged: 2017-10-28 04:41:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/303832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natcat5/pseuds/natcat5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roses are sweet, beautiful flowers, but one must always be wary of their thorns. While dealing with England, China assures himself that he knows to be careful around the man. However, beauty is intoxicating, and roses never fail to draw blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beautiful Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> De-anon from the Kink Meme. This prompt: "Something about England reminds me of a rose. Really pretty on its own but still dangerous because of the thorns.  
> And its his national flower too. So another nation comparing him to a rose."
> 
> Was also posted here: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7574355/1/Beautiful_Flowers

Beautiful Flowers

He has never understood the fixation that Westerners have with roses.

In Yao's opinion, there is something hideously deceitful about the flower. The delicate nature it appears to possess. Those scarlet petals, clustered so tightly together, as if concealing some great secret within their depths. That gaudy, dark red.

Yes.

That red. I

f he thinks about it, he is not so annoyed by roses of other colours. No, it is only the red rose that inspires feelings of disgust and dislike within him.

That red.

Red, like blood.

And yet, there is nothing wrong with colour itself. It is, after all, one of his own colours, and the most prominent colour on his flag. But on that bloom, with its soft petals so inviting, so beautiful, hiding the thorn-ridden stem beneath…

Mesmerizing red. Its sole purpose to draw _ **more**_ red. Draw blood.

 _The red rose._

/

"I'm not sure what the problem is," says the man calmly, kneeling on the mat with an air of relaxed ease and mild amusement as he looks across the table with green eyes hooded, "We get what we want, and your people get what they want. I am honestly unsure of where the disagreement lies."

Yao clenches his teeth, fighting to keep the haze from descending on his mind as he locks eyes with the green-eyed Westerner across from him. The man's voice is muted and oddly far-off sounding to his muddled mind, but Yao can decipher the words well enough to be enraged by them.

"You bastard," he hisses, the words sounding slow and lethargic no matter how much venom he tries to put in them, "H-how dare you say such a thing? You have harmed my country-,"

"I have done nothing you didn't ask for," interrupts the foreigner smoothly, his lips upturned into an almost patronizing smile, "All that tea lying around and no one rich enough to afford it. Now you have access to a…a lovely little plant that everyone can-,"

"Shut up!" snarls Yao, straightening up and knocking the table as he does. The tea swishes dangerously in the two cups, and the guards that accompanied the Westerner to the meeting all place their hands on their swords, advancing into the room.

A hand from the blonde has them standing down and moving back to their posts, and the man maintains his amused smile as he watches Yao sway on his feet, the Chinese man's enraged expression beginning to waver into a confused one.

"Perhaps you should sit down," says the Westerner, a kind, almost motherly tone to his voice, "before you fall over and hurt yourself."

A flash of anger. An eruption of rage in golden eyes.

And then, a frown. A haze descending. An ancient nation slowly descending to his knees, blinking lethargically and shaking his head back and forth, as if trying to dislodge the fog that has suddenly fallen thick and fast. He wobbles, almost toppling over as he sinks down to the ground.

"Oh you poor thing," coos the blonde man, rising from the pillows and moving to the other side of the table to place himself down beside Yao. The Chinese guards tense, but with no negative reaction from their ward and no sign of violence from their 'guest' they are forced to remain where they are, watching the humiliating position of their country with no way of ratifying the situation. With no opposition, the foreigner pulls Yao closer to him, wrapping an arm around the smaller man almost protectively.

"Are you tired?" questions the Westerner gently, eyes a lit with concern, "Tsk, you can barely keep your head up. Imagine, running yourself ragged like this."

Yao struggles to fight off the deep haze that he has suddenly sunk into, but his body and mind are drifting further and further away and he finds himself unconsciously leaning into the warm body that has appeared beside his. Allowing the comforting arm to settle around his shoulders. The lips, whispering soothing words, pressed against his cheek.

"Whatever am I going to do with you?" purrs England, twirling a lock of China's hair around his finger and smiling against the man's skin. "So tired. Would you like me to take care of you, pet?"

Yao struggles to lift his head, blurred eyes meeting those ever-bright, ever-cunning green ones. He is entranced by the practically glowing pools, the shifting of a thousand different shades of green, flecked with age, power, cunning and all of the elements of a World Power. Those eyes, those gorgeous, all consuming depths.

He smiles.

 _So beautiful._

/

There is something beautiful about England.

Watching as the man enters the room in all his ridiculous Western finery, looking self-assured and proud and powerful, that is the first opinion that China formulates. There is nothing overly spectacular about his features. In fact, he looks rather rough and tumble for someone that represents a nation priding itself on its decorum and stature. The ruffled, straw-like blonde hair and the wiry form, like a mountain cat, do not seem like an accurate representation of what the country is supposed to be.

However, the man's eyes…

In a land as rich and bountiful as his, China has never found a reason to call something foreign beautiful. There is more than enough beauty in his own lands to satisfy his need for pretty things. He has always turned his head from Western trinkets, and has never been enamored with the blonde hair and light eyes of Western women like some of his men have been. The beauty of his own country, his own riches, his own people, is more than enough for him. Nothing can compare, in his opinion, and there is nothing in the Western world worthy of being called 'beautiful', a word he uses solely when describing himself.

But when his eyes meet England's for this first time, that word, beautiful, is his only thought.

Those eyes, an unidentifiable shade of green hooded beneath long eyelashes. Unidentifiable, because they appear to be a mixture of every green in the natural world, from the soft green of a summer leaf, to the vibrant green of jade, to the harsh, glinting green of emerald, and to the shifting shades of an endless forest. And that word, endless, also describes the man's eyes. Deep, hypnotic, all-encompassing, all-knowing.

Yes, his eyes are indeed beautiful.

And it is then that Yao begins to notice the other beautiful things about the man as well. The way he carries himself, the soothing, yet forceful manner in which he speaks. The courteous, yet cunning smiles that are both enthralling and deadly. The way he makes himself known in a room. Not a braggart by any stretch, but sitting, standing, and simply existing in a way that draws attention to him. Draws respect. Draws awe.

There is a deadly kind of beauty to England.

And China can appreciate it. He refuses to allow himself to be impressed by the man, but he acknowledges the power that England exudes and the beauty the Asian never before believed to be present in other countries. It is the first thing that persuades him to take these meeting seriously. Consider them as something other than a trivial annoyance.

As the talks progress and the two ambassadors spar verbally with the help of a haggard looking translator, China and England merely stare at each other. Proud China's eyes are wary, mistrusting, and appraising, while England's eyes seem nothing but polite and curious, offering the Oriental man small smiles across the table. China finds himself half-listening to the negotiations. Talks of his precious tea, so coveted in the Western world, and a plant that they believe is worth trading for it. The back-and-forth talks that are getting nowhere quickly bore him, and he finds himself in a staring contest of sorts. His own golden orbs lock tightly with England's bright green. The man does not seem concerned that China appears to be trying to stare him down, merely continues smiling, eyes and mouth glittering with something dark and dangerous and yet as pretty and enchanting as a flower.

It seems like an eternity has passed before a bell is wrung for a break. Both ambassadors stand, mopping sweaty brows with handkerchiefs. The British man extends a hand to shake and the Chinese man stares at it, before nodding his head and taking it briefly. The negotiations appear to be going well so far, and some of the tension that started the meeting off appears to have faded. As his ambassador leaves the room China finds himself remaining where he is. Kneeling on the pillows with his eyes locked with England's. Those eyes, that shifting, hypnotic pool of green.

As they sit, not exchanging words but merely keeping their eyes locked while sipping at their tea, China vows to never let his guard down around England. The man's beauty is alluring, but dangerous, he can see that clearly.

The silence sits between them, and China finds himself dropping his gaze for a moment to adjust himself on the pillow. A strand of hair escapes his ponytail and settles against the side of his face, but before he can set his teacup down and move it he feels a finger brushing against his cheek, pushing the strand back behind his ear.

China freezes before jolting backwards, hissing angrily and clutching his cheek. The tea swishes dangerously in the cup and a few lukewarm drops splatter about the table and on his lap.

"What are you doing?" he spits, setting down the cup and glaring at the Englishman across the table. England says nothing, merely reaches forward once more and pushes the strand of hair back behind China's ear again. China freezes and his breath hitches at the feel of the warm digit against his cheek, and England smiles at him, eyes twinkling as always.

"I will never do anything you don't want," he says softly, but firmly, pulling his hand back and folding them both neatly in his lap, "You have my word on that."

China finds his cheeks colouring and he rubs at his cheek, as if trying to scrub the man's touch away. The blush merely deepens however, and the Ancient nation finds his chest pounding in a way it never has before.

 _Beautiful, but dangerous_. He reminds himself firmly. _Beautiful, but_ …

England smiles again, wide and friendly with all trace of darkness and cruelty in his eyes hidden, eclipsed by the summer green that lights up his face. A strand of his unruly hair falls in front of one eye, and the man shoots a coy look at China from behind it, his smile becoming more mischievous and teasing.

China finds his breath stolen once more and he turns his head to the side, hiding his burning face behind his overlong sleeve.

 _Beautiful_.

/

"I really do like these flowers."

Yao looks up from his writing, frowning as he sees that Arthur has moved away from him and is currently staring with a strange sort of admiration at his peony bush.

"They are just flowers," says the Chinese man, brow furrowed in confusion and irritation, "We need to have this proposal finished soon. Stop getting distracted."

Arthur's eyes flit over to Yao, looking amused as he cups one of the blooms in his hands.

"I would think you would be proud that I was admiring your country's beauty," he comments with a smile, stilling fingering the soft white flowers. "It really is quite lovely."

The two men are in the garden on China's estate, the entire area covered in blooming flowers and bountiful green. The setting is distracting in Yao's opinion, and not the best place to be drawing up a proposal, but England has something of an infatuation with China's natural beauty. And his unnatural beauty as well, now that he thinks of it. His cities, his countryside, his people, his rivers, his jewels and paintings and clothing and his mountains and lakes and valleys. It is almost unnerving, how fascinating and enthralling England finds China, but flattering as well. After all, isn't this the man who has conquered most of the world? The man who has sailed everywhere and seen all that there is to see? Every treasure that the Earth has to offer? While China will sharply deny ever caring about what a foreigner thinks about him, having England admire his country has a pleasantly warm feeling settling in his chest.

A blush colours Yao's cheeks and he turns his face away sharply, clutching the paper in his hands until the edges scrunched under his fingers. "It's just a flower," he mutters again, pride, as usual, not allowing him to appreciate a compliment out loud.

"It is a pale, beautiful blossom," continues Arthur with a smile, having become used to Yao's inhibitions by now. The man tilts his head downwards to press his face into the center of the peony, eyes closing as he inhales deeply, "White as snow, delicate as paper, as enchanting as the stars themselves."

The Englishman lifts his head and turns it towards Yao, dropping his hands to the side as he regards the Chinese man with something of a fond look in his eyes. Yao's cheeks warm again under the gaze and he feels his heart hammering in his chest.

 _This damn Westerner, always undoing me…_

"You remind me of a peony, Yao," says Arthur, eyes hooded and lips upturned into that secretive, amused little smile of his. "A pale, enchanting flower."

Yao blinks, and then his cheeks flush red again, this time with anger. He sets the paper and pen down and folds his arms across his chest, casting Arthur and angry glare.

"I thought I told you to cease referring to me in a feminine manner," growls the Asian, giving Arthur a look of sheer irritation as he sits with his hands folded into his sleeves. The blonde continues to smile, even laughing a bit at Yao's indignant expression.

"I thought I told you not to be so sensitive," replies Arthur with a teasing grin, "Compliments might be a rare thing in Asia, but in the West all people do is kiss up to one another."

"And is that what you're doing? 'Kissing up' to me?" shoots back Yao with a scowl. Though he refuses to acknowledge it, Yao enjoys Arthur's compliments. Enjoys being called a beautiful, enchanting, exotic paradise. An Eastern jewel, a land like no other. Though he won't admit it, the idea that the compliments were simply 'kissing up' causes an ache in his chest.

"Why, of course not!" replies Arthur automatically, an almost scandalized expression on his face, "When I tell you that you remind me of a flower, I mean it."

The comment does nothing to lessen Yao's scowl and he turns his face angrily, pulling the document back onto his lap and attacking it viciously with his inkpen.

 _Stupid Westerner. I am not a woman! Nor am I flower, or a peony, or any such derogatory comparison-_

Yao lets out a startled squeak as Arthur suddenly materializes beside him, wrapping an arm around the smaller man's waist and pressing his face against the top of the Asian's head. Yao's heart is pounding in his chest, and his skin is flushed all down his neck. Arthur's hand is resting low on his hip and his chest is pressed against his back. A few weeks ago, China would have ended the negotiations completely if England had dared touch him like this, but somewhere between the talks over tea, walks in the gardens, and visits into town, Yao has become… _comfortable_ with the Westerner.

Or.

Perhaps.

A bit more than comfortable.

"If it makes you feel better," murmurs Arthur, his warm breath tickling the top of Yao's head and his finger rubbing circles on his stomach, "I too have been compared to a flower."

"R-really?" asks Yao, trying to worm his way out of the hold that is making him feel far too hot under the collar, "Which one?"

This time, it is Arthur who turns red and he pulls back, keeping only his arm wrapped loosely around Yao's waist. His face is turned in the other direction, and Yao can clearly see the splotches of red adorning the man's cheeks.

"It's embarrassing," says Arthur, coughing a bit, "I shan't say it in front of you. I can't."

A smile sneaks onto Yao's face and he laughs slightly, reaching over to poke the blonde's cheek.

"Bashful are we?" he says with a grin, "You who says I shouldn't be offended by being compared to a flower, and yet you are ashamed that others do the same to you? Is hypocrisy a common trait in England?"

Arthur's face whips to meet Yao's, and his eyes are narrow and angry. Slights against his country never go well, joking or not. China meets his gaze evenly, however. Golden eyes are teasing, and challenging. Though they have become more…comfortable with each other, China still finds it necessarily to make it quite clear that he is not afraid of England, and that he will be treated as an equal. Nothing less.

Arthur's lips press into a thin line, and his body untenses.

"Very well," he stays somewhat stiffly, "Tell me, which flower do you think I've been compared to? I've known you long enough to decide you remind me of a peony. What flower do I remind _you_ of?"

Yao blinks at the unusual request and he pulls back, eyes narrowed slightly. But as the question seeps deeper into his brain, he finds himself actually pondering it, pulling up all the knowledge he has amassed about England during his visit.

Beautiful, of course, is the first word that comes to his mind. It is followed by powerful, alluring, and proud. The words are all dominant and authoritative, and China is once again reminded of England's great strength and influence.

Golden orbs meet green again and Yao smiles slightly, the answer he has come up with pleasing him. Arthur raises an eyebrow and Yao gives an uncharacteristic laugh.

"Have you come up with something?" asks Arthur, looking perplexed, curious, and amused, "You seem quite pleased with yourself."

Yao nods and smiles again, this time with a coy look that is very similar to the one England sometimes gives, including looking up from under his eyelashes. Arthur's amusement grows, and in his eyes something else begins to glitter. He lowers his head towards Yao's and the Chinese man's train of thought and composure is momentarily shattered as Arthur presses his lips to the skin just beneath Yao's ear and whispers, " _Tell me._ "

A shudder passes through China and his eyes flutter shut, unexpected sparks of pleasure shooting through his body at the feeling of the other man's mouth on his neck, of his body close to his. His eyes open only when Arthur retracts his lips, and his cheeks quickly turn red. Instead of turning away again or moving himself away, Yao simply clears his throat and averts his eyes, directing his gaze towards the peony bush that Arthur had been admiring earlier.

"The flower that you remind me of," he says, words slow and deliberate, "Is a rose."

Arthur's eyes widen and his eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. The blonde doesn't say anything, but his arm tightens around Yao's waist and his deep green eyes bore down on the Chinese man, compelling him to continue.

Yao looks at him sideways, out of the corner of his eye, and allows himself a small smile.

"A rose," he continues, "A beautiful red rose. With a large bloom, thick and enthralling. Filled with such beauty that all who admire it are drawn to it. A rose, so often spoken about with praise and high regard. So celebrated. However, it remains stained red, always stained red, with its depths concealed by the numerous folds of its bloom. And still, it is only ever seen for its beauty and enchanting power. Never for its thorns."

China stops talking and silence falls between them. Arthur is silent, and his eyes are hooded, hidden beneath the bangs that his downturned head now have falling in front of his face.

"Is that what you think of me?" he says finally, his voice a soft murmur and his head turned away. He sounds not dejected or insulted, but his voice is flat and- though Yao might be imagining it- appears to have an almost dark kind of chuckle colouring its tone.

Yao feels a shiver run down his spine, but ignores it, shifting himself closer to the Englishman.

"The world underestimates you, I think," he says simply, "Britain is glorified often, and I think that it is rare that people appreciate the blood that stains your past. The bodies and carnage that built up your current throne. They only see the affluence and power you now have. Appreciated only for beauty, never for thorns."

Another silence, before Arthur turns his head towards Yao, eyes glittering intensely.

"So, a rose?" he asks.

 _Beautiful, gorgeous, hidden depths._

 _Hidden thorns_.

 _Dangerous_.

"Yes," affirms Yao with a nod, "A rose."

As Arthur's lips press against his and he feels his body mold against the Westerner's, one hand clutching the man's shirt and the other on his cheek, Yao hears that word, _dangerous_ , echoing around his head.

Yes, he knows England is dangerous.

He _knows_.

He really does.

And later, when the negotiations are completed and the trades begin he will once again assure himself and those around him that he knows that England is dangerous, and that he knows what he is doing.

And when the opium begins arriving, and he begins feeling odd, detached, silly even, he assures himself that he knows to be wary of England. He _knows._

 __And even later, when he is bare and lying beneath the Englishman with his legs wrapped around the man's waist and his head thrown back against the sheets in ecstasy, he will remind himself again that yes, England is…

England is…what?

What…is England?

 _Beautiful._

Yes, that's right.

China smiles blearily upwards, entranced as usual by those swirling green eyes, that enchanting smile, those hands, moving so softly, yet so powerfully along his body.

There is something, something far at the back of his mind that is screaming. But it is deeply submerged in the haze of opium smoke and pleasure. So far gone. So unreachable.

Yao sighs contently as Arthur pulls him against his chest, enjoying the feeling of the man's dexterous fingers running through his hair.

"See pet?" says the Westerner, his voice soothing as always, "You like it like this, don't you? I promised that I would never do anything you did not want, and you clearly want this. Your _people_ want this. Whatever your government says, your _people_ still want that lovely flower."

Yao opens his eyes and lifts his head. He smiles in that dazed manner that is perpetually about him nowadays and takes Arthur's face between his hands.

"I want _this_ flower," he slurs, sloppily pressing his lips against the blonde's. "My rose," he mumbles against the other's mouth before falling back against the pillows, hearing Arthur's soft chuckles above him.

"Still with the rose business," comments Arthur, amusement in his tone, "Do you still think I am an underestimated, dangerous flower, Yao?"

The Asian looks up, his consciousness beginning to slip as well as his coherence as he struggles to follow the conversation.

 _Dangerous_?

"Beautiful," he says softly, lifting a weak hand to trace the man's cheek, "Beautiful."

/

Yao thinks that roses are hideous, deceitful flowers.

Everyone is attracted to them for their beauty, for that enchanting red and gorgeous bloom. They are well loved and well received, known world-wide and often praised.

People admire their prettiness, but rarely acknowledge their thorns, deciding instead to focus on the beautiful part, see only the beautiful part.

Everyone claims to know that roses have thorns.

But in truth, no one notices those thorns until their blood has been spilt, and that hateful red has drawn more red.


End file.
